


Happy yellow bumblebee

by witheredsong



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:30:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witheredsong/pseuds/witheredsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He isn't Ruth in tears amidst the alien corn, anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy yellow bumblebee

Christoph pulls up his roots, carefully, cautiously, wraps his leaved branches around himself and goes off to the fertile sun-spilled earth of Spain. Straight and strong and young, few deep gashes here and there, but nothing that endless days of bright skies and warm days cannot cure. Uprooting himself from Dortmund is not the hardest thing he has ever done. He has nothing left there, anyway, except withered dreams and nothing to look forward to other than an aching heart. He will leave before he is left behind. As you can see, he is a bit of a poet. And an eco-friendly, conscientious citizen of the world. As well as pissed off with Basti.

 

So Christoph goes to Madrid, of tall sky-scrappers and old dilapidated neighbourhoods, of chrome and glass monstrosities and graffiti filled streets where children play football and young women with sad old eyes hang out washing from windows and converse with neighbours loudly.

 

He enters the Bernabeu, and for a moment, (just one, because he is, deep down, brave, you can’t be anything else if your career could be over at 22 and then 23 and yet you come back like Lazarus, a miracle in broad daylight, every time), is frozen with fear. He is small fry in this shark pond, and for a moment, again, questions his own sanity. But his common sense, always a strong attribute with Germans, kicks his metaphorical arse in, and he smiles and nods politely and shakes hands, all the while wondering if Alfredo di Stefano is really brought out of cryogenic preservation for these big media events, as he’s heard. Urban legend, probably, but he can’t really shake off the vague uneasiness, especially when Calderon smiles with bleached teeth and pats his shoulders for a minute too long.

 

The first time he puts on the white jersey, he feels like doing something dramatic and explosive, like running out onto the pitch and announcing to his team-mates “Behold, I’m become a virgin again”.

 

Which would be laughable. And pathetic. There are at least a hundred women in Dortmund alone who would fall from their chairs with gurgling laughter at the suggestion. He can direct you to an internet forum where they discussed his non-virginity at great length, to the amusement of entire Germany. Even Merkel smirked at him when she came down to visit the Mannschaft.

 

Anyway, he settles in very nicely, the white suits him and brings out his dark eyes and his newly acquired golden tan of which he is justly proud (he sends a picture of himself sunbathing on his terrace to Basti. Let him eat his heart out), and AS think of him as elegant and precise. Marca and a certain journalist called Sid Lowe think of him as one more to fall to Hierro’s curse, but he doesn’t pay much attention to discontented ramblings of people who know no better. Anyway, who better to know just how good he is other than Fabio Cannavaro, best defender in the world? Fabio opts to room with him, hugs him a great deal and is always watching him, brilliant smile and all. Christoph imagines that’s because Fabio admires his technique.

 

Of course, there’s been that small incident in the locker room, when he’d dropped his towel to get dressed after shower. Sergio Ramos had swooned, Gago and Higuain had round eyes and open mouths, Raul had tried to look away and failed miserably, Canna had licked his lips like a very hungry wolf, and the goalie, Iker, had tried very unsuccessfully to smother his hysterical laughter. He is offended, really. With his height, it was to be expected, no? Bunch of morons who acted like girls. As for Canna, he puts it down to the fact that a good training can make you hungry like nothing else. And Bernd loved making them run. And run. And run some more. Christoph thinks some of that running would help Bernd shed his rather wobbly, err…middle section. Or Real would have another Britney-gate on their hands. What? Spears is the great embodiment of the post-modern monochrome angst oeuvre, and Hit me baby one more time is the anthem of 21st century, the dream of the hooligan outside the bar. Since life is a bar, pay for your alcohol and get drunk, maybe get lucky, but the bouncer at the door will inevitably land you on your ass at the end of the night, out in the dirty street. Christoph once expounded his theory at great length to Jens, who looked him, and then said, “I see how you got into trouble with so many girls.” Then thwacked him on the head with a rolled up newspaper. Christoph is a mature young man, and thinks the lamentably young players at Arsenal have somehow converted Jens from a philosopher into a kindergarten teacher. Or maybe it is just Cesc Fabregas.

 

So Christoph is at Real, and the apple of Fabio’s eye, though Pepe often makes a fist and rolls back his sleeves when he sees Christoph (Christoph has grave doubts about Pepe’s mental health, because he has seen the exact look in a mad bull’s eyes in this bull-fight he went to see. He would like to wear the fighter’s clothes though. They’d make him look dashing), Gago and Higuain look at him worshipfully, Sergio’s eyes glaze over when he stands in the sun, and Raul quite likes him too. As for Guti, one compliment about his Gucci handbag, and he’s sold. And Nistelrooy is too occupied alternating between making calls to Manchester (the frequency increases after the pictures of Ronaldo in see-through wet briefs emerge) and cooing about his daughter.

 

As for Iker, he’s alternately scowling at any mention of Beckham’s name and shouting at the players. Christoph thinks he’s the most annoying goalie he’s ever met, and that’s saying something considering he’s seen both Kahn and Jens. When everyone gushes about his save in the match against Villarreal, Iker looks at him and tells him in no uncertain terms what he thinks would’ve happened were Christoph a second and a few inches late. Then he launches into a vivid description of what he’d do to Christoph if he’s not more alert, and uses terms which make Christoph want to cover Fernando and Gonzalo and Wesley’s ears. Maybe that’s why Wesley scores so many goals, at the other end of the field, just to protect his innocent ears from Iker’s extensive vocabulary. All in all, Iker’s a most difficult man to please.

 

Still, Fabio gives a huge hug at the end of the match, and rests his head on his chest, in a beautiful meaningful gesture. (Basti sends him a large hi-res version photo-shopped with him wearing a gown and Fabio only leather pants, with the words “The Italian’s German Bride” emblazoned in pink letters on the front. And lots of fluttery hearts. Christoph is so mad he sends Basti a large pink Michael Ballack dildo. Found after hours long trolling of e-bay. With the comment, “Since you don’t have one” emblazoned in fiery red on the package.)

 

After a few good displays, Iker thaws enough to take him dancing. And then get stinkingly drunk and tell him in great detail how good Beckham looked in pink lipstick and eye-liner, and how much Iker loved David’s left hand. Christoph really didn’t need to know about the veracity of the name Goldenballs that much, thank you, and worries about Iker’s manual fixation, since Iker holds onto Christoph’s left hand and falls asleep on his shoulder on the way back home and dribbles onto his very nice new shirt. Christoph feels affectionate and would cuff him, but fears what Iker might do if woken up suddenly, because goalies are unpredictable explosive material best handled with caution.

 

So all is well and good and Raul’s sons are beautiful and like climbing him like a tree and Guti’s baby daughter thinks he’s Prince, and Guti thinks he should bleach his hair, Sergio kisses him with enthusiasm, the Argentines joined at the hip like to invite him for asado, Iker looks at him and smiles sometimes, and he isn’t that afraid of Calderon now. Fabio looks at him sometimes like he isn’t getting something he should, but his smile and hugs are warm and welcome and Daniela likes to feed him up. He’s almost at home. And he’s happy.

 

He isn’t Ruth in tears amidst the alien corn, anymore.

 

Except that he misses Basti a little. A lot.


End file.
